"And of what, pray?
If report speaks true, you'll be needing to inherit something yourself to bear you through your present straitness." He shrugged and produced his snuff-box with an offensive simulation of nonchalance.

"Ye cannot cut the entail," he reminded his almost apoplectic sire, and took snuff delicately, sauntering windowwards.
"Cut the entail?
The entail ?" cried the earl, and laughed in a manner that seemed to bode no good.

"Have you ever troubled to ascertain what it amounts to?
You fool, it wouldn't keep you in--in--in snuff!" Lord Rotherby halted in his stride, half-turned and looked at his father over his shoulder.

The sneering mask was wiped from his face, which became blank.

"My lord--" he began.
The earl waved a silencing hand, and turned with dignity to Hortensia.
"Come, child," said he.